


until we remember how to breathe again

by beaubcxton



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Depression, F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hogwarts Hospital Wing, Jily Challenge, Panic Attacks, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Winter, puns, they low key want to die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 12:46:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16408778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubcxton/pseuds/beaubcxton
Summary: based on the prompt: "you're such a pillock you know potter, but at least i know i'll always have a knight in shining armour" james loses his mind when he finds out that lily was attacked and recklessly takes on an army of slytherins - but at least they both end up in the hospital wing together"





	until we remember how to breathe again

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags because this may be triggering. 
> 
> This is the first time I've written something for JilyChallenge and I may have gone a little overboard.
> 
> I want to thank my lovely friends @aster-ria @blitheringmcgonagall and @jilyloveswolfstar who convinced me that this was indeed sad and I also want to formally apologize to @women-inthe-sequel because I abused the line, "Alright, Evans?" 
> 
> Enjoy?

The wind howled sharp and stinging like a demon, drowning out her voice yet, he still discerns the words pouring out of her. Seized by sudden affection, he stares at her and a smile brushes onto his face.  Snowflakes kissed her permanently pale face. Cheeks flushed a bright red, due to either exertion or frost and amidst the hues of white, she looked like a firecracker.

Red, bright and captivating.

Walking beside her, James felt a little warmer. “Alright, Evans?”

Her emerald eyes assess him. “Almost as much as you, Potter.”

“I’m feeling a little chilly,” James remarks, shoving his fingers deeper in his pockets and fisting them. “Wouldn’t mind a little cuddling.”

She doesn’t respond for several footsteps but when she catches his eyes on her face, rolls her eyes and quips, “Who’re you going to bribe?”

James scoffs, shivering slightly. It’s December so the snow is falling hard. Hogwarts looks like a fairy tale and the aesthetic nearly makes the chattering teeth worth it. “I’ll have you know, Evans, that I’m very irresistible.”

“To Sirius?” Lily retorts, not missing a beat. “I don’t doubt it.”

“The  _snuggle_ is real.”

“These wacky puns are  _snow_ laughing matter.”

James throws an arm over her when he sees her clench her jaw from the cold and Lily burrows into him, gratefully though she mutters a creative profanity about lack of personal space that makes him laugh loudly.

“Can you believe Mary Stunner and Adam Stunpike are soulmates?”

This ignites a laugh out of James. “Couldn’t predict that. Did you see her face when he spat slugs on ol’ Flitwick?”

She laughs and he represses a shiver. “I can’t believe someone’s more prudent than me. It’ll be a wonder if they start dating.”

“I don’t think she gives a rat’s arse about the soulmate bond unlike him.”

Lily agrees, nodding her head. Adam Stunpike, a purebloods from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, was practically devoted to the concept of soulmates.

Romanticists assumed soulmates to be your other half, purebloods considered them as bonded, a chain that couldn’t be melted.

You see, soulmates were a fickle thing.

Everyone with magic constituting their blood had a mate, a chosen one. Rarely were muggles found to possess a true significant other, the chances weren’t impossible. Blood had a tendency for mixing, after all but muggle lacked the technology and intellectual capacity to deal with matters of fate, blaming it on coincidence or science.

Destiny wasn’t crafted for them.

James had concluded that it was one of the reasons purebloods were repulsed by and with Muggles. The decision to not accept your soulmate seemed wrong and foolish.

He’d grown up with the credence that soulmates were your other half, the yin to your yang. And, admittedly, he’d taken part in the most ridiculous beliefs of love.

Who wouldn’t want someone who made your heart skip a beat? Who implicitly understood you?

And, James, the hopeless and sappy creature that he is,  _craved_ it, the intimacy that someday he’d wake up to someone’s face and know that they were made for each other. Their kids would bounce up on their bed, right at the stroke of dawn and he’d share a look with his wife, who was hopefully, Lily and he’d have turned into a puddle.

Fleamont Potter, for all the noteworthy detentions he had served, joked about how a soulmate would make even shining a trophy an adventure.

Euphemia Potter, with all her posh and elegant background, an infamous pureblood wrecked his traditional view on soulmates. It’s a choice, she had articulated. If you’re not happy with your soulmate, who’s to say you have to be with them? Society? Screw them.

The Potter Heir, not so secretly his mother’s boy had taken the advice to heart, driven by the need to follow whatever his mother did. For, who could be cooler than his mother? No one else, surely.

This was the same woman who drank forty-three cups of hot chocolate in one day and managed to keep it in. She was a woman who deserved to be  _stanned_.

James started to  _live_ , wore his heart like a bracelet on his sleeve and didn’t wait for anyone, for the supposedly perfect someone.

Fallen hard for Lily the way he had, she not only checked all the boxes to what a soulmate should make you feel. Each retort sent his way, no matter how disturbing and savage it was, made him grin like a fool but most importantly, she made him happy.

Certainly, James would very nearly die from happiness if the universe decided Lily and he were a match made from heaven. (Sirius would lose  _several_ bets.) James, however, knew without a shred of any doubt, if he’d have the blessing to wake up to Lily’s face, he’d know they were a perfect match.

They’re not dating, not yet, anyway. Having only recently become friends, James often worried whether some of his gestures would be too much for her, believing their relationship to be tethering on the brink. Moments like these confirmed his belief that they were honest to God- friends.

“I can’t believe you dragged me out just so you could show me a plant, Potter.”

“That’s the gratitude I receive?” James makes a noise of protest, steering her towards the entrance of the castle. The towers loom high above them, setting a very atmospheric mood that’s tangible with nostalgia.  

Their boots press into the snow, making footprints. Making a mental note to heist a prank involving snow, he wonders if she’s going to push his hand away for it’s warmer here and the vicinity is packed with gossipers but instead, she adjusts so his hand rested more comfortable around her shoulder.

“You’re such a toerag, Potter.” Lily bumps his shoulder, playfully. His arm tightens around her despite the wolf whistles that trail them.

“It closed when you touched it, Evans!! That’s magic even I haven’t seen before!”  

“It’s called a touch me not.” Lily sends him a questioning look when they pass the staircases leading to the dormitories but continues to explain. “They respond to the stimulus of touch.”

James takes a moment to process it and then smiles widely.

Lily groans when she notices it. “Not another prank..”

He’s predictable and she knows.  “It’ll be snow much fun, Evans!”

“I’m  _leaving_ , Potter!”

“Hey, hey, hey.” James swings her to a halt and gazes at her, softly.  “We’re almost there, you’ll miss an opportunity. Wouldn’t want that, now, would you, Evans?”

“I wouldn’t mind.” She admits, untangling herself from him and smirks when the look of disappointment crosses his face. “Unless you’re  _not_ there. In that case, I’m game.”

“Rude, Evans, especially to the person who’s going to change your life.”

She tilts her head at him and the image is so adorable, James swears he nearly dies a little. It’s funny how his whole heart is bursting with love for her, how he can’t remember a time when it wasn’t. He suspects that even if the weight of the world was pressed down upon him, she’d make him feel light and enthusiastic.

Despite her glaring flaws like preferring tea over coffee and her targeted aim when they had a snowball fight last weekend, he doesn’t breathe every second she looks at him.

She’s bad for his health, really.  

Brushing his hand against her velvet skin, he notes her shiver and a thrill runs through him at the implication. Moving her finger and placing it on a painting, he clears his throat and says, “Tickle the pear.”

Heart lodged in the throat, Lily swallows, nods and tickles it without questions. If the situation wasn’t so suddenly tense, it would have been hilarious that she doesn’t even question James’s antics, used to it with a fond familiarity.

A door materializes and swings open, basking her in a warm and cozy atmosphere. Her jaw drops open as soon as she enters. Spinning around, Lily looks up at James’s lopsided smug grin and shakes her head, a look of awe coating her features.

“May I ask?”

“A Marauder never reveals his secret.” James plops down on the chair, internally cheering that he’s made her smile. She looked like a goddess when she smiled. The whole room actually lit up with her joy. It was infectious.

“Of course, my bad.” Lily sits (right next to him) and cocks her head, brushing a hand through her hair. “This is nice, thanks Ja-Potter.”

The laugh that bubbles from him is warm and genuine, if not a little proud. “You called me James.”

She looks redder than the roses around the Potter Mansion. “I didn’t stop laughing Ja-Potter! Potter.”

When the tears start streaming down his face, she groans loudly and rolls her eyes though there’s a hint of a smile playing at her crimson lips.

Not that he noticed, of course.

* * *

They’re eating a chocolate cake. Prepared by the extraordinary James Potter, it’s bound to be legendary. The man is known for many talents; quidditch, academics, and trivia. He’s the only person who makes Lily stomach do weird flips and jiggles, the motion similar to a dinosaur stomping though he knows not of this particular talent. Certainly, one of a kind, a person would be wise to assume he’d be a fantastic chef.

The general verdict?

A baker, he was not.

“You’re rubbish at this, Potter.” Lily shares a secret smile with him under her spoon, demonstrating she’s (almost) kidding. She’s yet to work out how to navigate this friendship, this relationship with James, worried that a wrong step might send the frail ground crumbling. “I hope you’re happy when I get food poisoning from this.”

James waves a spoon in her direction, nearly groaning and facepalming when a bit of cake falls on the table. He sees Lily bite back a smile and the gesture adds to his mortification. Flushing bright red, he (tries to, anyway) coolly says, “Admit it, Evans. I’m brilliant at this.”

“By this, if you mean terrible, I must agree.”

James gasps at her, sharply. Staring at her like a dog that’s been kicked for a number of seconds till her eyes averted, he mumbles dismayed. “I thought you were pretty decent, Evans and you prove me wrong by lying.”

Lily rolls her eyes and makes a big show by licking the spoon. Almost, as if she realizes what she’s done, she makes a gurgling sound before she coughs.

And nope, he has most definitely not memorized the look of her tongue. What are you talking about?

It’s not a total disaster. The cake, that is for the direction of his life is a completely contradictory issue. The issue that troubled James was lack of tact.  He’s smooth, he is. Just ask the mirror he practices his lines in front of. That British drawl accentuated just a bit more? Check. That husky underlying? Also, check.

However, and it was indeed unfortunate, that when he saw Lily Evans, all of his considerable planning went out the drain in mere moments leaving him a blithering blubbering buffoon.

See? That’s evidence. What kind of suave guy said,  _buffoon_?

James was certain John Lennon hadn’t even uttered the word. Only a guy who’s been graced by the presence of Lily Evans fell subject to this curse. It was horrifying and predictably, his luck.

Apparently, as event suggested, a man also lost his original train of thought in Lily’s presence.

“Potter?”

James throws her a startled glance and tilts his head, in an endearing way. He hopes.

“You’ve got a bit of-“ Lily turns an attractive shade of rose.

And, Merlin, if he didn’t die, right  _then_ and  _there_. Swallowing hard as his mind goes into overdrives, he tries to remember how to breathe.

“ _You’ve got a bit of um, right there.”_  is a line that people use when they fancy someone. Sirius was on amicable terms with the line, funnily enough. Not even in his wildest dreams, could he even imagine Lily Evans flirting with him. It’s a perfect line, in the perfect environment. James would hazard a guess he probably didn’t even have chocolate on his face.

Was he dying? He  _definitely_ was.

Was he imagining the whole scenario? James wouldn’t put it past him. It seemed like something he’d land himself into.

Lily’s grinning at him, albeit shakily, her lips looking radial. Her whole face was beyond gorgeous, in truth and no verses, even from the prose from Shakespeare could accent how she made his heart stumble, how her grin send his knees wobbling and how even a glance from her during dinner would make him splutter water on Sirius and summon multiple groans from his exasperated friends.

There was a certain power to her that made the language of English seem gibberish, the kind of influence that would transform his almost normality to a full-on sappy personality.

_“Potter??”_

He mentally shakes himself from his stupor and he must really be mad to be even considering his thought. One more time, wouldn’t hurt, right? He could brush it off as a joke but he doesn’t want to taste the bitter sting of rejection. If not now, when, though?

He quickly chides himself from being a wuss of a Gryffindor.

“ _James?”_

He looks at her and hell, she’s even got a tissue at hand. Wiping any chocolate off his face with his fist, roughly, he focuses on her, waiting for an emotion to shine, almost pleading. Rewarded when disappointment flashes on her face, it’s a marvel he doesn’t end up whooping.

“Go out with me, all right, Evans?”

Lily looks surprised, just gapes at him, really. Then, when he thinks she’s going to say something like  _Piss off, Potter_ , she nods, “Yeah, all right.”

James cocks his head towards her. “What?”

Lily, finally, smiles and it electrocutes him. “I said yes, Potter.”

James tucks his lips in and waits for the punchline where Lily admits it’s a joke but when no rebuttal occurs, he blinks, stunned. “Knew you’d cave in, someday. Couldn’t resist me, could you?”

“ _Piss off, Potter.”_

* * *

“Hey, Potter?”

“Yeah?” James asks softly, helping her to shrug on her coat, peering at her beneath crooked glasses. They step out of the kitchen, walking a little closer, for warmth purposes.

“You really had a bit of chocolate-“Lily turns, her vibrant red braid whipping against her shoulder as she moves closer to James, their chests virtually touching. “On your face.”

And, then, as if the gods felt like they needed to shower James even more, Lily’s fingers touch his lip and with press against them before they ghost away.

He swallows but dared not to move.

“Didn’t quite remove it, that.” Lily licks her lips, eyes trained on his chest. He’s nearly a head taller than her so she has to look up when they argue, something that annoys her immensely. Now, her emerald orbs peer at him, hesitantly, eyelashes fluttering, lazily.

A heartbeat passes and struck by an emotion, Lily bites her lip and her foot is barely a step away when James' hands find themselves in her hair, scrawny fingers in locks of treasure accompanied with his nose tilted and whispering against her skin.

The constellation of freckles is accented up close and he wants to kiss her so badly, kiss her forehead, her throat, kiss the birthmark on her nose.

Sucking a shaky mouthful of oxygen, he breathes, “ _Lils_.”

Her eyes slip shut and her body pressed against his. He’s barely tasted the peppermint tea on her lips when footsteps rap on the corridor.

“Oi! James, whatcha doing there with Evans?”

Lily laughs quietly at the betrayed look that shadows James’s face. “Bad luck, Potter. Guess you’ll have to step up your game.”

He’s in the midst of a groan when she kisses his cheek with a grin and springs away.

His skin burns.

* * *

Claws rip against his tendons, surely leaving a scar as fire erupts on the wound, burning his side and numbing his mind from thoughts and reality.

Prongs stumbles back, chest searing. There's a ringing in his ears, loud and distracting. His focus blurs as his head pounds, simultaneously. He can feel the blood trickling from his chest and he winces with pain and at the sensation.

  Despite his numerous quidditch injuries, he’d still maintained a laughable fear to blood and (much to Lily’s delight) was very squeamish when the occasional injection was required.

Today, the night dragged slowly, each minute that passed proved less than strenuous for the Marauders as Moony was particularly restless. The boys had known it before, of course, that tonight wouldn’t be easy. They’d watched Remus’s shoulders sag a week in advance and been victim to his bursts of temper tantrums before he lunch-ed on five whole bar of chocolate, selfishly.

The worst crime? He munched the Jelly Slugs, viciously which he knew were James favorite.

Usually, they’d be able to cope with shoving and brutal  _teasing_ but NEWTS were close approaching and several sleepless nights resulted in fatigue clinging to bones like an animal to a tree.

Prongs sighs, as much as the form allows, and readies himself by positioning his antlers.

Padfoot nips at the wolf’s legs, an invitation to a friendly game, worried eyes darting to his best friend.

Prongs nods at the dog, a silent confirmation that he’s not (severely) injured.

The wolf shoves him friendly but Padfoot’s paws are ground to the earth and he presses again. The wolf analyzes the situation, theatrically. He whines as the consideration takes place for a second too long and then, his eyes snap towards hazel and his legs fly as he jumps.

Prongs legs give way as he’s sent sprawling, crashing into a tree. The bark thuds down and scratches his face. Pain shoots from his antlers towards his forehead, twisting his thoughts till they become pleas. The leaves gently fall on his shut eyes as stars twinkle behind them, silver and red in a field of black.

Something licks him on the cheek and he’s ground back to reality. To the snow stuck to his cheek. There’s shuffling, a whine around him before the world turns quiet.

“Mate?” The voice lets out a string of swearing. James oddly wonders if he’s a pirate like the ones Lily made him watch one summer. “Prongs, you need to transform back. Prongs, please.”

Prongs blinks but the action nearly sends him vomiting. In animagus form, he’s privy to more distinct odors like the cool and crisp scent of pine which lingered in the air, a declaration sent by the winter season, stating Christmas was on its way. James loved the smell and often took to wearing it as his cologne but something about it made him understand why Peter hated it.

Groaning, he tries to focus on something to dull the pain that washes over him like waves. Clenching his teeth together, he hears a familiar voice pleading again through the obnoxious ringing.

“Mate, stop being such a stubborn buck and transform, James, please.”

Prongs mentally articulates the name, James and faintly recalls that it sounded habitual. Wasn’t his name James in his human form? A light bulb flashes and he wonders if that’s what the voice is asking him to do.

Since they said  _please_ , James imagines his antlers transforming into the legendary black messy hair, his legs evolving to arms in a fluid motion.

It adds even more pain to his body and a part of his mind decides never to listen to people again. Energy depleted, James hears a  _Thank God_  before darkness winnows in completely and carries him to safety and oblivion.

* * *

When James wakes up, nearly seventeen hours later, on a bed that smells of Pepper Potion with coarse pillow sheets, the signs add up (and he’s been enough times) to know that he’s in the Hospital Wing.

When James  _blinks_ , nearly seventeen  _and a half hours_  later, in the Hospital Wing, he nearly dies due to cardiac arrest.

Comically enough, Sirius’s face leers over him, worried creases on his forehead. Against his will, James grins at the telltale of old age.

“Worried about me, mate?” He says but all that comes out is a gurgle. Groaning as his throat stings, he sags in the bed when a glass of cold water is tilted down his throat.

Sirius is the first one to flick his head, followed by Peter.

“Idiot.” The former states, affectionately, voice cloaked with emotion as he messes up his best friend’s hair. James holds his breath and nearly sighs in relief when he feels the third flick.

“You’re okay, Moony?”

The sound that follows his question sounds like its coming through a radio, distinct and wrangled, a combination between a sob and a laugh as if the individual has yet to decide which emotion to recognize.

“James.” Remus begins and James rolls his eyes. It’s the use of his first name and not their nickname that foresees their dialogue. “I warned you I was dangerous. I’m a pitiful excuse of a human being and I totally get-“

“Stop giving me a headache, Moony. The only dangerous thing you do is study for nine hours straight.” James murmurs, dragging a hand over his eyes. “Dunno how you manage that, mate.”

“Yeah!” Sirius chimed in. “Honestly, who folds their socks?”

“And wears pajamas with chocolate cartoons on them?”

Remus blushes at the last admission but still, frustration shines on his face. “You could have been killed, James! I can’t, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

James digests it and smiling gently at Moony and jokingly says, “Probably go raving mad.”

The boys laugh but Remus chews his lips, thinks about a life without James and throws himself on the patient, tears streaming down his face.

James doesn’t say anything but responds the hug fiercely even if it means breathing through flannel. When the boy with scarves as tattoos, finally pulls back, he stares at his friend through a haze.

“You look,  _god_ , Prongs, you look-“

“Terrifically stunning.” Sirius supplies, helpfully, dropping in the chair next to the bed, soothed now that his best friend’s awake.

James mutters out an ‘oi, I’ve always looked stunning, under his breath. Louder, he says, “Not as bad as you, Moony. Shove over, Padfoot, give Moony the seat.”

Remus laughs at the nickname and the joy spreads amongst his friends. He nicks Sirius’s seat, gratefully.

“I don’t’ look that bad, now, Prongs.”

“Evans far worse-”

“You’re a handsome bugger.” James trails off, his heart freezing in his chest. “What did you say, Wormy?”

Peter throws her a pained look at his friends, requesting assistance, nearly letting out a whine when both of them shake their hand, mournfully. “Um, mate, there’s-“

“What is it?” James asks, sharply, sitting up in bed. He doesn’t care about the pain, not now. If he’s heard right... “What did you say, Wormy?”

Looking positively pained that he has to be the one to convey the dreadful news, Peter creates friction with his hands by rubbing them together. “You’re not the only one in the hospital, mate. Lily, she, she was at-hurt last night during Head Rounds.”

His heart stopped at the name, Lily but all the breath from his lungs is seized by the erratic thump of his pulse. Pushing himself up and ignoring the protests from his friends, he stumbles forward, nearly tripping and tears the binds away.

Sliding past through a pair of curtains, he stops short, feet growing ice cold at the visage in front of him. Peter squeaks behind him and Sirius murmurs out an oh.

He wants to break down right there. Purple, as bright, as bellflowers stain her skin. If the environment was different, James would have believed she had recently bitten into a plum.

He’d probably been in a love daze.

Presently, he’s not sure he’s even seeing  _straight_.

That  _couldn’t_ be Lily. She looked so  _altered_. Usually, he teased her for looking like the mortal version of Christmas with her fascination towards the colors that symbolized autumn. Gone so far as to wearing sweaters in  _summer_ , reindeer ones that too with sequin glitter on her self-knitted hollies. And, when it was too hot, it was rare to find her wearing a non-red item. There was always a cherry that bounced on her palm, always red radish earrings bobbling from her ears.

Now, though,  _now_ , it was hard to rely on the apparition before him that it was truly her. Face so pale, it looked more corpse than alive. Each breath that he counted took an age and the white bedsheet was spread till her neck. Lips parched and blue, she looked like she’d just drowned and was only there for haunting resolutions.

Spinning around to find Madam Pomfrey bustling towards him, a bottle of amber tonic in her hands. “Why, Mr. Potter. In all my life, I’d never seen anyone so disrespectful.” She abruptly falls short as the subject of discussion is brought into view. Her face drops and panic immediately finds its way to James.

For sure, the patron worried a lot and she was over dramatic, exaggerated his injuries to an almost humorous light but James had never seen her look so desolate. Known for her strong will and her motherly nature, it seemed unbelievable for her to look hopeless.

The sentiment only plays for a flash before she masks away but the snapshot keeps running through James’s head like a broken record.

“What happened to her?” James asks, throat suddenly clogged with emotion. He looks at Lily again and nausea drowns his throat, synchronized by the pounding of his head. Padfoot notices it and pats him on the back, roughly.

“Attacked.” Poppy says briskly, though not unkindly. Even she seems to see how the dire state of her patient affected James. The staff knew of James’s feelings towards a certain redhead, not of its extent but enough to know he held her in high regards, always boasting about the muggle-born's talents in his weekly chat with McGonagall. “A bunch of Ravenclaws and Slytherins, interestingly enough. Got hit by the cruciatus curse, right to the heart.”

James shuts his eyes, the sting of them joining the melting of his heart. Rage ignites in his chest, burns with the power of a thousand flames and with the vengeance of the wronged. The need to aim all his wrath to those bastards, cowards who maintained the traditional belief that a muggle born place was in the grave needed to be buried.

All of them were worse than filth. James could never understand, couldn’t even fathom how ridiculous the whole ideology was and the price of their stupidity resulted in punishment for the undeserving. It just made him so  _mad_.

James clenches his fingers, counts to ten and sighs heavily, flexing his fingers to get rid of his frustration and worry.

Remus, thankfully, is able to ask the question his friend doesn’t want the answer to. “How long?”

_Please, Merlin._

Madam Pomfrey hesitates and glances at him. In her eyes, he can see the glistening reflection of tears. “We estimate it was around an hour.”

Time halts and in less than a nanosecond, James crosses the implications of the period. Against his will, he thinks an hour and retches on the floor, stomach pinching painfully. Sirius wipes the sweat from James’s forehead, murmuring something consolable but it turns to mindless words that can’t possibly be heard through the cacophony in his ears.

“Why isn’t she in Saint Mungo's?”

“Her body is too delicate for the travel. The shock might affect her. We can’t take the risk.” Poppy grumbles, angrily. “And, the Ministry seems to think I, alone, am capable of treating her. A nutter, Minister Bagnold.” She spits out the word  _Minister_ like it’s an insult.

He takes a look at her and it sends him spiraling. “She’s going to be alright, though? You can cure her, yeah?”

The response nearly sends him to Hell; a shake of the head.

“Poppy?”

She doesn’t seem to be annoyed at the nickname and lack of formalities, for once. “We’ll have to wait and see, Mr. Potter. I trust you know what happens to people subjected to the unforgivable for more than sixteen minutes?”

James knew.

His dad, an Auror in the Ministry had trudged home, bearing news about a couple who were admitted to Saint Mungo's, for they faced the after-effects of the cruciatus curses. Fleamont had only waited to find out if there was a chance for them. There wasn’t. The couple couldn’t even remember each other, let alone themselves. And, their unconcise shouts and chaotic sobs were subdued with injections packed with various muggle solutions.

“Tortured for forty minutes, Mia.” James had eavesdropped and he’d been shocked to find his father’s tone on the cliff of a breakdown. Not known for his empathy, the youngest Potter caught a glimpse of what the war proposed.

The cries of his father were heard a whole room down and James had stifled his own tears and he buried his face into the pillow, that night, head swimming with the girl whose weapon was her wit and whose Achilles heel was her  _life_ , her  _right_ to magic.

He’d been so frightened, devastated about the possibility of what might entail if Lily, so much, got struck by a  _stupefy_.

He’d never been so scared.

Not until now.

Nothing could ever compare to the true angst that clutched his heart similar to a child with his toy. The worry overcame him with the disturbing vigor of a tsunami and rendered him incapable of any conscious thoughts. All thoughts of his pain were driven from mind as he dropped in the chair next to her bed.

He buries his face in his hands and allows his eyes the privilege to burn. His friends murmur out his name but he shakes his head, stubbornly.

Sensing that he’s close to a panic attack, Remus hushes everyone and shoos them away. Sitting on the floor, cross-legged, he stares at James in the eye. “You’re going to be okay, Lily’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.

James shakes his head. Her name keeps pounding in his head like drums.  Fingers curling around the chair, his breath comes out in shallow gasps. He can’t lose her, he can’t. He loves her so fucking much. He needed her more than anything. Selfishly, like humans are, he wonders why her, why not another muggleborn.

Was the body a boggart? Was he in Hell, finally paying to commence for his acts? He’d live there if she’d just be alright.

“Prongs, mate, listen to me, yeah? Breathe, yeah, like that, that’s good, one, two, three, five, nine, James? James, breathe-”

* * *

When the lights flicker off and he’s suspended in darkness, only the shimmer of the moonlight basking in the room, James stirs from his position on the chair, walking towards Lily’s right, drops the chair closer to her bed.

He touches her palm and then, drops it because there’s enough faith left in him to consider the possibility of her waking up and telling him to piss off for laying a finger on her.

“Feed you to the giant squid, I swear on Jane Eyre, Potter.” He can imagine her threatening, finger raised in the air, her posture reproachful.

Feeling a bit like a pounce, he asks, albeit shakily, “Alright, Evans? You’ve slept enough. You surprisingly don’t snore. I always imagined when we got married, you’d snore so loudly that it’d wake up our cat because we’d get one, of course. Maybe, a dog later, as their friend, yeah? You’re not telling me I sound like a creep, Evans? You sick or something?”

Her face is as still as a painting and hope quickly waning, his attempted grin falls flat. “Please, wake up.” His tone is completely unrecognizable. I’ll do  _anything_.”

* * *

The dasy blur into agony as he waits, only leaving her bedside to take a quick shower in the prefect’s bathroom, granted access by Moony.

Madam Pomfrey seems to try everything. There are a number of potions that James is instructed to give her but there’s no improvement no matter what they fucking try.

The Quidditch team has gone to hell, according to Marcus Turners, (She’s going to be fine, Potter! We need you for the match against Slytherin.) He doesn’t care; it’s of no concern of his. He had given up his badge a week after the full moon. It had landed with a click on McGonagall ’s desk and he’d watch it shake as his body tremored. Though she looked sad to see him go, she didn’t say anything and nodded as if she was expecting his decision.

The Marauders brought him his notes and he rewrote them, as neatly as he could, for Lily so she wouldn’t miss anything. Even added a little side notes so she could understand better. Added their initials in his drafts, a thousand times.

Her friends stopped by on the first morning, their faces flushed with effort. Dorcas had dropped on the bed, pitifully letting out a cry and burrowing her face in Lily’s armpit.

Marlene and Mary had huddled close to the girl, choking back sobs, their faces illustrated with running tears.

He’d given them a minute, strode out the door and inhaled the fresh air. It wasn’t fair for the weather to be so jubilant when one of their own was withering, clinging onto a branch of life.

Strolling for a couple of minutes, he hung low as to not draw attraction to himself. When he returned, he dropped in the chair, lending Lily’s morose friends his accepted company and noticed who was, coincidentally steps away from the entrance of the Hospital Wing.

A scowl crossed the Gryffindor’s face. “What are you doing here, Snape?”

Sneering, Snape walked into the room, greasy locks flapping. “The same reason as you, I’d imagine.”

“I’m here for  _Lily_  but you’re obviously not so I’m going to ask  _again_ , what are you doing here, Snape?”

“Get out of here, Snivellus.” Mary sniffs, confidently and several heads snap towards her, surprised. She’d been shaky towards members of his house after her incident. “You’ve done more harm than good.”

The underlying threats under their sentences aren’t overlooked by Snape. He hesitates, cranes his head and looks at Lily. Visibly, his face crumples before he turns on the heels and strides away, the door of the Hospital Wing slamming behind him.

James’s hand itches for his wand long after the boy is gone but he stifles his rage. He can’t land himself unconscious if Lily were to wake up.

* * *

Dumbledore drops in a few hours later, peers at him under moon rimmed spectacles and with a tone of someone who wished circumstances rang favorable, translates his apologies. “I’m sorry, my boy.”

“Do you know who was responsible?” James cuts to the point, staring daggers at Dumbledore. He should have made sure nothing happened to the students, it was his fucking job but his forgiving nature blindsided him from the despicable nature of the vile.

“I do, indeed.”

James rages. “Who?”

“I am afraid it is not my right to disclose their identity,” Dumbledore says, coolly, crossing his palms over his robe and leaning back. The relaxed posture enrages James even further. He wanted to shake the man, demand some fucking answers. He was already on edge and Dumbledore was driving him up the wall.

“I swear to Merlin’s left-”

“I’d appreciate if the tone wasn’t used, Mr. Potter. I must remind you that I am still your headmaster.  Your anger is well justified but you and I know how the scenes will play out if I disclose the participants of this act. You’ll presumably land yourself in places worse than detention.  Do not trifle with things you misunderstand. Know that I have dealt with the situation the best I can.”  Dumbledore’s speech does little to dissuade the fit James’s managed to work himself into. He needs to let it all out, needs the answers.

“Your ‘dealt with the situation’ is merely a chat!” James yells, voice cracking like glass on ceramic. “Look at her! She’s-” He breaks off, breathing heavily as he blows his nose in. He couldn’t even look at her. It broke him, made his skin privy to crescent-shaped wounds.

The headmaster regards his student, in a kinder way. Laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he pats it, in an attempt to comfort. “It would be wise not to fight within yourself.”

Brown eyes flash at blue ones.

“I’m not angry with myself, yeah? That’s frankly stupid.”

Dumbledore stares at him, long and hard as if he’s peering into the very depth of James’s soul. The intensity of the man’s gaze prickles his skin but James refuses to back down from their silent confrontation.

“Mr. Potter,” He says, at last. “A wise woman once said that grief is not as heavy as guilt but it takes more away from you. Read the book Insurgent by Roth, excellent witch, she is, if you do have the time, I’ve heard your capabilities in the branch of transfiguration.” Dumbledore falls silent and then, adds as if he’s forgotten he’s not alone. “Do not fear your grief, nor your guilt.”

James presses a palm on his eyes. He doesn’t allow himself to cry. It seemed useless, didn’t contribute towards productivity. Nothing’s even happened yet and he’s already a mess. Dumbledore whistles and shuts his eyes, the melody echoing quietly in the room like a bird welcoming aurora.

Somehow, the warlock knows the reason why he’s feeling so dreadful. Dumbledore, really, saw all, James thought bitterly. If he had been there with her for Head Rounds, she might have fared better.

It was he, after all, who told her he wouldn’t be able to make it to the Rounds.

If he had offered her the Marauders Map, she might haven’t gone that way. Knowing Lily, she’d go that route on purpose because of course, she would.  Her own safety wasn’t even a topic of concern when it involved the risk of her friends. She’d been on the defense ever since Mary was attacked.

If he’d have known.

If he hadn’t left her.

Dumbledore wordlessly passes him a tissue but there are no tears left to cry. Professor Slughorn should have been beaming right now and yelling, “Excellent, Liy, I mean, Ms. Evans! I wouldn’t have expected anything less, especially from a talented potion maker like yourself.” Instead, the professor had taken a week off to deal with ‘family issues.’

They all knew it was a lie.

“What if, she doesn’t-” James stares at his cuticle and presses it. Pain drives pain away like fire did fire. “Doesn’t wake up?”

Dumbledore considered it. “Ms. Evans is a talented and bright witch. We can hope-”

 _Hope_. There was that word again.

“-that she will return to us. She is sorely missed. Trust in the power of love, James. She might come too. Till then, I advise you to contact her family. They’ve been hard to reach. Perhaps, you might have better luck.”

James barely kept himself from laughing outright for it seemed his life was anything but lucky.

* * *

_Ms. Evans,_

_I find myself very apologetic as I write this letter to you for my tidings are sore. Lily’s in a coma and her chances of recovery are slim. She was hit by a curse and I’m surprised she’s still alive._

_I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect your sister._

_I know this might come as shocking but if you want to see her, reply with a place and we can come to pick you up, I reckon._

_James Potter_

* * *

Hectatte, his owl,  pecks at the windowsill and he unlocks the glass and unfolds the paper from the foot. The bird nips his finger, drawing blood and he attempts to coo at it but his voice sounds brittle and hoarse.

If animals could portray their frowns, Hectatte is doing exactly that. Glaring at him before she lets out an exasperated sound, she stretches and soars away, a glimpse of brown against the snowy grounds of Hogwarts.

James leans against the wall, the breeze blowing on his face, adding onto his exhaustion.  

Unfurling the paper, James reads:

_Stop sending me letters, you freaks! Do you know how embarrassing it to get an owl when you have respectable guests over? I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about it since you lot are the cause of embarrassment!_

_I don’t care about my disgrace of a sister. Brought more shame than delight. Good riddance, I say-_

James stops reading after the fourth mention of freak. Yelling, he flings the parchment but finds himself even more pissed off when the letters fall a few feet away.

Seeing red, he swings blindly and punches the wall with all his strength, once, twice, thrice. He doesn’t know when he starts crying but loud, ugly sobs split the air and he’s so angry but he’s so sad.

It's not an emotion he’s familiar with, always used to laughter. He’d been involved with terror and he’d been sad but now, that he was on the losing side, he can’t help but wonder if death was really a lover.

His teeth shudder from his restrained rage. Sniffling loudly, he hits the floor with his hands.  Lily didn’t deserve this. Even her own sister, someone who should have been there for her, treated her like she was  _filth_.

James yells and punches the wall, shaking, shaking, shaking. He doesn’t know if he’s screaming but suddenly, there’s a _beep, beep, beep_  sound that interrupts him and his throat is raw and energy so far gone.

He stumbles over to Lily, hands a little bloody and all the ringing stops. This time, his mind shuts down and is treacherously quiet. The oxygen turns to shards of ice in his lungs.

Oh.

Soulmate bonds came in different forms. Some were lucky enough to find matching tattoos, some had their soulmate’s names and first words etched onto their skin.

His parents had a bond where they had glimpses of the other’s life in dreams. Their love story was a hilarious story to recount.

He  _apparently_ had a bond where you got the other person’s wounds marred on your skin. Not a very rare one, but definitely  _jolting_.

James swore he didn’t care,  _wouldn’t_ care if all his midnight theories and rambling to the Marauders (“Give it a bloody rest, Prongs!”) of soulmates were actually right. They were mostly just fantasies, dreams that would cocoon him into a more peaceful slumber.

For all his love for Lily, most of it had been a joke because soulmates, it didn’t really matter to him.

But there was something very firm and depressing when vindication was served to him in the form of a bright red bruise, the sight twisting his heart like the motion of a dagger being stabbed in his flesh.

Madam Pomfrey runs in, her frantic eyes pushing past James and she stops, short too. For a moment, the only thing James can see is white from Poppy’s coat and then his eyes are fixated on Lily’s hand.

It’s as red as ruby.

“James-”  Poppy begins, staring at the hand, eyes drifting to James’s hand for confirmation. Her very being aches when she finds it. The boy shakes his head, unable to trust his voice. “I, I’m so sorry.”

Later that day, as Poppy checks Lily’s vitals and wipes her face with a moist cloth, dabbing the moisture onto her cracked lips, the sound of the machine sent by Saint Mungo's begins anew.

A crease appears on the nurse’s forehead and she, somewhat, warily murmurs a spell under her breath and freezes.

James glances at her face; the look she sports urges him to find a bin so he can vomit. It’s one of those looks that people make when they’ve just found out something and if, they’re still enough, it won’t partake in reality.

“What?”

Quickly sending him a look that begs for silence, Poppy draws her wand and starts muttering a string of incantations.

Panic that swelled by the second, he starts to beg and pray even though he’s never been religious. Wishful thinking offers promises as long as it’ll be okay.

James’s so enamored with his thoughts, he doesn’t notice that the golden glow surrounding Lily from Poppy’s spells are fading.

“I’m so sorry, James.” Poppy repeats and James sinks to the chair, his knees giving way beneath him. Twinkling stars sparkle behind his eyelids, the image of her red hand flickering on and off like an old TV.

He has a soulmate that’s going to die. Lily’s going to die, he contradicts himself because more than anything, more than a soulmate, she’s Lily, his friend and the love of his life, the one he wanted a cottage with since he was thirteen. He wonders if the universe might grant him some luck in death, as well.

The tears start falling like the welcoming rain to fresh blossoms.

* * *

The following morning, word spreads among the whole school. Unlike typical teenage gossip, the news that spread brings out the emotion even among the apathetic.

Lily Evans, Head Girl and brightest, most brilliant witch of her age is going to succumb to death.

There are certain people who’ll you assume live forever or at least, you hope they do because you can’t imagine a life without them. Their presence so missionary and constant, a life without them is unthinkable whether you regard them as the sun or not, you still revolve around them.

Lily was legendary, like that, in a way and death seemed improbable for her. Her exemplary skills in Potions granted her the reputation that she’d invent an immortality potion and become the next Flammel or Merlin, himself.

Dumbledore announces it over dinner, along with the news that James Potter is her soulmate soberly and the Gryffindors are  _wrecked_. Especially, the first years who know Lily to be kind and gentle. She’s helped them get to class on a number of occasions, understood them and spent her lunches just talking to them about how much they miss their parents, how they felt so lonely. They break out in a clatter of noise, all in the need of letting their contribution pave way in the tribute for their Head.

The older ones are more subdued, settling for picking their food, restlessly, all appetite gone. They’ve grown up with Lily. It could have been one of them, that night. Did all the good ones die young, then?

They’re also swarmed with an intense sympathy for James. Nobody should ever have the misfortune of losing a soulmate.  And, to lose them at this tender age? It was, it was horrific. Even that was an understatement.

James, for his matter, isn’t involved in the debate.  The Marauders stand guard by James, defend his honor when the snide comments are unbearable.

Nobody tells him it’s going to be  _alright anymore or have hope_. He notices the differences, counts them all. Though, they all do indeed wish for the best, they prepare for the worst.

Mary tells him, while adjusting her scarf, so she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. “She liked you. You probably know that because you guys were supposed to go on a date but, but she liked you an awful lot and-”

James hugs her, both of them shuddering. The girl on the bed sleeps like a princess, her chest rising periodically. It mocked them, clearing announcing the countdown had begun, each breath was numbered, each moment.

They couldn’t even do anything, except stand and watch and dread the next day. “A few more days left, at the most.”

Her face was free of any blemishes, courtesy of Madam Pomfrey. If the silence didn’t hung over them like a blanket on flames, they’d assume she was only sleeping.

James wished to God she was.

* * *

“Alright, Evans?” James fiddles with his fingers, he can’t see her tranquil look when his inner turmoil mounts. “I reckoned you were secretly mischievous. Stood me up, didn’t you? You’re lucky I’m in love with you. Brought the date to you since you’re not going to make-since you’re sick.”

James stands up and opens up a container. The smell of waffles, immediately, waft in the air. He serves it, one for her and one for himself, drizzling maple syrup on hers, till it turns soggy because he knows she has an enormous sweet tooth.

Bringing the plate to her nose, fantasizing her eyes might snap open and he’ll get to see her smile one more time.

“Cmon’ Evans, cmon. If you won’t even taste bacon waffles, I’m going to be disappointed. Ranted about how much you wanted to try them, didn’t you. Evans?”

James swallows, runs a hand through his hair and drops down on his chair.  “Did I ever tell you some pureblood bedtime stories? My favorite one was about stars. I know it’s very nerdy of me but yeah. The story starts off with a bloke telling his grandkid that we’re all souls, not just vessels. Like, you and I? We’re both souls, not just carriers and our souls keep searching for their stars, their mates. Our stars are up above, though and when-when we die, our souls travel with us and they, finally, meet their  _soulmates_.”

Chucking weakly at the end, suspended on a sob, James starts to hum a tune. “Let’s imagine we’re dancing, Evans.” His voice is scratchy; he doesn’t care. “Make some memories.”

* * *

Their friends visit later that night, find the hospital wing in bright colors, banners hanging down the walls, food sitting quietly.

So, they drown their misery in firewhisky, tell each other lame ‘dad jokes’ because they all know Evans has terrible taste in jokes and laughed at the most stupid things. She’d wheezed and complained about a stitch in her side when she told Dorcas ducks had feathers to cover their butt-quack.

Sirius makes sure James eats because _fuck, James, you haven’t eaten anything in days except that goddamn toast._

And, James munches a little, laughs even though he’s breaking because this is somehow worse, this laughter because he can’t forget,  _Merlin_ , he can’t forget not even for a fucking second and it’s making him mad that they can grin even though he knows, knows it’s for Lily and they’re all as desperate as him.

He’d seen the cuts on Marlene’s hand and he’d told her that they’d get past this, somehow and he doesn’t know when he’s become such a fluent liar but he has. A liar or a dreamer.

Poppy doesn’t admonish them. (What’s the use?) Ignores the noise, muttering a charm when she goes off to sleep.  

Some of the teacher come to bid their goodbyes in the night, just in case. There’s not a single one that doesn’t have a tear to shed. A fourth-year also sneaks in the Hospital Wing and look surprised when he sees the company but still weeps when he holds Lily’s hand and croaks out a thank you and dashes away.

James traces the wound on Lily’s hand and all his friends fall silent because it’s so sad, isn’t it? To finally fall in love and then, to watch the love of your life embrace death. They think they understand. James knows they don’t. They can’t possible even understand a tenth of what he’s going through, how it feels to see your favorite person slowly go through something that’s causing her so much pain but still wishing against everything she’ll still wake up. They don’t get that  _watching_ her die makes him wish he was dead.  

It’s hard to look happy so he just looks at her and there’s a soft smile lighting his face.

“Alright, Evans?”

* * *

He falls asleep, head dropped near her leg. They’re holding hands and he doesn’t know when or how because his heart has suddenly dropped to the pit of his stomach for it was fire on ice, her hand so cold, too cold.

He screams, rips his hand away from hers and touches her wrist. He can’t find a fucking pulse,  _fuck, fuck, fuck._

When he doesn’t see the light rise of her chest, his eyes start to burn but he keeps looking, presses his head closer to her but she’s stiller than ever before.

And, he’s sobbing, loud and hoarse and there are hands clasping his stomach. Sirius hugs him fiercely, refusing to let go.

James watches as Poppy waves her wand over Lily,  _the body_  before she pulls the sheet over her eyes.  

* * *

They tell you time heals all wounds but it’s a lie. It only gets harder from that day.

The funeral was a mass of black and he’d been so angry because she wouldn’t have wanted that. Not Lily who was so colorful; she might have been furious that people were mourning the last time they saw her.

When he looks at her body in that coffin, he nearly loses it, nearly throws himself in the Great Lake and waited there till the squid killed him if it wasn’t for his friends hands on his shoulder, pressing and offering him their support.

He tells the school Lily, Lily was brave and she fought till her last breath. And, he’s sorry, so fucking sorry he can’t even breathe. It hurts to walk because he misses her so much.

Five minutes after they lower the coffin, he wants to open it because she can’t be dead, that body, it’s not hers. It  _can’t_  be.  A minute later and Peter’s wiping his forehead after he’s expelled bitter bile.

This is a whole new Hell. Each day brings him a new kind of pain and torture. The pain shoots through his veins. His friends tell him to eat but he can’t even get up from his bed.

He starts to return to class but goes to the dorms as soon as possible. People send him sympathetic stares and he nearly starts yelling when a girl tells him she’s sorry for his loss.

James feels like he’s lost her a thousand times. There’ll always be an  _Alright, Evans_  on the tip of his tongue but he’ll never say it again and the first time he realized it resulted in a panic attack. It’s stupid, really, to be getting so emotional over the little things but his grief doesn’t take shape when he’s alone and left to his thoughts though he’s rarely alone. His friends are too afraid.

On the contrary, it’s when he’s in class and he doesn’t see her hand shoot up. It’s when he’s walking in the corridors and he doesn’t have to hurry up because he doesn’t see that familiar red hair that he loves so much. It’s when Dumbledore gives that speech about muggleborns that physically hurts him. It’s when he transforms every full month because he counts, one month ago, Lily was attacked. Two months ago, Lily was attacked. It’s when he stumbles over present and past tense. It’s when Aneta Bones becomes Head Girl and he’s somehow supposed to converse with someone not Lily about patrols.

The memories follow him, lurk in the shadows, waiting to pounce. He can never get rid of it. He doesn’t want to forget, feels like it’s a betrayal against her memory. But he stops going to the kitchen because it smells of opportunities and  _could been-s._

It doesn’t get better, far from it but James gets better at blocking out his thoughts, at barricading the pain. Sometimes, he’ll half-smile at a student and eat another spoonful of rice.

He burns out the notes he wrote for Lily, stares at the fire for ages, heart feeling heavy. He goes back to the Quidditch pitch, one night and flies. When he comes back, his friends are in a frenzy and Sirius throws himself on James before he punches his shoulder. James, baffled as he is, assures him he’s okay.

They take a long time to believe him but they do. James sees them mourning too. Remus starts to smoke, Peter grins less and Sirius’s rarely laughs.

The first time James has the energy to say  _Good Morning_ , Sirius nearly cries. They have each other, it’s okay.

He’s getting better, he tries to convince himself so he decides to have a bath, instead of spelling himself clean. When he’s in the shower, the tears run with the water because it feels wrong to get back to normal.

Bowing his head because the tears won’t fucking stop,  _damnit_ , his fingers turn white as he clenches them around the sink.

And, then, as if his depression and headaches aren’t enough, he’s struck by a painful reminder of what it entails to lose a soulmate.

When he looks up, his eyes are bloodshot, the same color as the wound on his chest is.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope nobody cried! The soulmate story about comets was not mine! I just needed something more depressing, of course. The ending wrecked me. I hope someone got it!!


End file.
